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THE POISON TREE
A Tale of Hindu Life in Bengal
BY
BANKIM CHANDRA CHATTERJEE
TRANSLATED BY
MIRIAM S. KNIGHT
WITH A PREFACE BY
EDWIN ARNOLD, C.S.I.
London
T. FISHER UNWIN
26 PATERNOSTER SQUARE
1884
PREFACE
I had been asked by the accomplished lady who has translated the
subjoined story to introduce it with a few words of comment to the
English public. For that purpose I commenced the perusal of the proof
sheets; but soon found that what was begun as a literary task became a
real and singular pleasure, by reason of the author's vivid narrative,
his skill in delineating character, and, beyond all, the striking and
faithful pictures of Indian life with which his tale is filled. Nor do
these qualities suffer, beyond what is always inevitable, in the
transfer of the novel from its original Bengali to English. Five
years ago, Sir William Herschel, of the Bengal Civil Service, had the
intention of translating this _Bisha Briksha_; but surrendered the
task, with the author's full consent, to Mrs. Knight, who has here
performed it with very remarkable skill and success. To accomplish
that, more was wanted than a competent knowledge of the language of
the original and a fluent command of English: it was necessary to be
familiar with the details of native life and manners, and to have a
sufficient acquaintance with the religious, domestic, and social
customs of Bengali homes. Possessing these, Mrs. Knight has now
presented us with a modern Hindu novelette, smoothly readable
throughout, perfectly well transferred from its vernacular (with such
omissions as were necessary), and valuable, as I venture to affirm, to
English readers as well from its skill in construction and intrinsic
interest as for the light which it sheds upon the indoor existence of
well-to-do Hindus, and the excellent specimen which it furnishes of
the sort of indigenous literature happily growing popular in their
cities and towns.
The author of "The Poison Tree" is Babu Bankim Chandra Chatterjee, a
native gentleman of Bengal, of superior intellectual acquisitions,
who ranks unquestionably as the first living writer of fiction in his
Presidency. His renown is widespread among native readers, who
recognize the truthfulness and power of his descriptions, and are
especially fond of "Krishna Kanta's Will," "Mrinalini," and this very
story of the _Bisha Briksha_, which belongs to modern days in India,
and to the new ideas which are spreading--not always quite
happily--among the families of the land. Allowance being made for the
loss which an original author cannot but sustain by the transfer of
his style and method into another language and system of thought, it
will be confessed, I think, that the reputation of "Bankim Babu" is
well deserved, and that Bengal has here produced a writer of true
genius, whose vivacious invention, dramatic force, and purity of aim,
promise well for the new age of Indian vernacular literature.
It would be wrong to diminish the pleasure of the English reader by
analysing the narrative and forestalling its plot. That which appears
to me most striking and valuable in the book is the faithful view it
gives of the gentleness and devotion of the average Hindu wife.
Western people are wont to think that because marriages are arranged
at an early age in India, and without the betrothed pair having the
slightest share in the mutual choice, that wedded love of a sincere
sort must be out of the question, and conjugal happiness very rare.
The contrary is notably the case. Human nature is, somehow, so full of
accidental harmonies, that a majority among the households thus
constituted furnish examples of quiet felicity, established constancy,
and, above all, of a devotedness on the part of the Hindu women to
their husbands and children, which knows, so to speak, no limit. The
self-sacrifice of Surja Mukhi in this tale would be next to impossible
for any Western woman, but is positively common in the East, though
our author so well displays the undoubted fact that feminine hearts
are the same everywhere, and that custom cannot change the instincts
of love. In Debendra the Babu paints successfully the "young Bengalee"
of the present day, corrupted rather than elevated by his educational
enlightenment. Nagendra is a good type of the ordinary well-to-do
householder; Kunda Nandini, of the simple and graceful Hindu maiden;
and Hira, of those passionate natures often concealed under the dark
glances and regular features of the women of the Ganges Valley. In a
word, I am glad to recommend this translation to English readers, as
a work which, apart from its charm in incident and narrative, will
certainly give them just, if not complete, ideas of the ways of life
of their fellow-subjects in Bengal.
EDWIN ARNOLD, C.S.I.
LONDON, _September_ 10, 1884.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
NAGENDRA'S JOURNEY BY BOAT
CHAPTER II.
"COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE"
CHAPTER III.
OF MANY SUBJECTS
CHAPTER IV.
TARA CHARAN
CHAPTER V.
OH! LOTUS-EYED, WHO ART THOU?
CHAPTER VI.
THE READER HAS CAUSE FOR GREAT DISPLEASURE
CHAPTER VII.
HARIDASI BOISNAVI
CHAPTER VIII.
THE BABU
CHAPTER IX.
SURJA MUKHI'S LETTER
CHAPTER X.
THE SPROUT
CHAPTER XI.
CAUGHT AT LAST
CHAPTER XII.
HIRA
CHAPTER XIII.
NO!
CHAPTER XIV.
LIKE TO LIKE
CHAPTER XV.
THE FORLORN ONE
CHAPTER XVI.
HIRA'S ENVY
CHAPTER XVII.
HIRA'S QUARREL. THE BUD OF THE POISON TREE
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE CAGED BIRD
CHAPTER XIX.
DESCENT
CHAPTER XX.
GOOD NEWS
CHAPTER XXI.
SURJA MUKHI AND KAMAL MANI
CHAPTER XXII.
WHAT IS THE POISON TREE?
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE SEARCH
CHAPTER XXIV.
EVERY SORT OF HAPPINESS IS FLEETING
CHAPTER XXV.
THE FRUIT OF THE POISON TREE
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE SIGNS OF LOVE
CHAPTER XXVII.
BY THE ROADSIDE
CHAPTER XXVIII.
IS THERE HOPE?
CHAPTER XXIX.
HIRA'S POISON TREE HAS BLOSSOMED
CHAPTER XXX.
NEWS OF SURJA MUKHI
CHAPTER XXXI.
THOUGH ALL ELSE DIES, SUFFERING DIES NOT
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE FRUIT OF HIRA'S POISON TREE
CHAPTER XXXIII.
HIRA'S GRANDMOTHER
CHAPTER XXXIV.
A DARK HOUSE: A DARK LIFE
CHAPTER XXXV.
THE RETURN
CHAPTER XXXVI.
EXPLANATION
CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE SIMPLETON AND THE SERPENT
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE CATASTROPHE
CHAPTER XXXIX.
KUNDA'S TONGUE IS LOOSENED
CHAPTER XL.
THE END
GLOSSARY OF HINDU WORDS
For the assistance of the reader, the names of the
principal characters in the tale are given--
NAGENDRA NATHA DATTA _A wealthy Zemindar_.
SURJA MUKHI _His wife_.
DEBENDRA DATTA _Cousin to Nagendra_.
SRISH CHANDRA MITTRA _Accountant in a Merchant's Office_
KAMAL MANI _His wife, sister to Nagendra_.
SATISH _Their baby boy_.
TARA CHARAN _Adopted brother of Surja Mukhi_.
KUNDA NANDINI _An Orphan Girl_.
HIRA _Servant in Nagendra's household_.
CHAPTER I.
NAGENDRA'S JOURNEY BY BOAT.
Nagendra Natha Datta is about to travel by boat. It is the month
_Joisto_ (May--June), the time of storms. His wife, Surja Mukhi, had
adjured him, saying, "Be careful; if a storm arises be sure you fasten
the boat to the shore. Do not remain in the boat." Nagendra had
consented to this, otherwise Surja Mukhi would not have permitted him
to leave home; and unless he went to Calcutta his suits in the Courts
would not prosper.
Nagendra Natha was a young man, about thirty years of age, a wealthy
_zemindar_ (landholder) in Zillah Govindpur. He dwelt in a small
village which we shall call Haripur. He was travelling in his own
boat. The first day or two passed without obstacle. The river flowed
smoothly on--leaped, danced, cried out, restless, unending, playful.
On shore, herdsmen were grazing their oxen--one sitting under a tree
singing, another smoking, some fighting, others eating. Inland,
husbandmen were driving the plough, beating the oxen, lavishing abuse
upon them, in which the owner shared. The wives of the husbandmen,
bearing vessels of water, some carrying a torn quilt, or a dirty mat,
wearing a silver amulet round the neck, a ring in the nose, bracelets
of brass on the arm, with unwashed garments, their skins blacker than
ink, their hair unkempt, formed a chattering crowd. Among them one
beauty was rubbing her head with mud, another beating a child, a third
speaking with a neighbour in abuse of some nameless person, a fourth
beating clothes on a plank. Further on, ladies from respectable
villages adorned the _gháts_ (landing-steps) with their
appearance--the elders conversing, the middle-aged worshipping _Siva_,
the younger covering their faces and plunging into the water; the boys
and girls screaming, playing with mud, stealing the flowers offered in
worship, swimming, throwing water over every one, sometimes stepping
up to a lady, snatching away the image of _Siva_ from her, and running
off with it. The Brahmans, good tranquil men, recited the praises of
_Ganga_ (the sacred river Ganges) and performed their worship,
sometimes, as they wiped their streaming hair, casting glances at the
younger women.
In the sky, the white clouds float in the heated air. Below them fly
the birds, like black dots. In the cocoanut trees, kites, like
ministers of state, look around to see on what they can pounce; the
cranes, being only small fry, stand raking in the mud; the _dahuk_
(coloured herons), merry creatures, dive in the water; other birds of
a lighter kind merely fly about. Market-boats sail along at good speed
on their own behalf; ferry-boats creep along at elephantine pace to
serve the needs of others only: cargo boats make no progress at
all--that is the owners' concern.
On the third day of Nagendra's journey clouds arose and gradually
covered the sky. The river became black, the tree-tops drooped, the
paddy birds flew aloft, the water became motionless. Nagendra ordered
the _manji_ (boatman) to run the boat in shore and make it fast. At
that moment the steersman, Rahamat Mullah, was saying his prayers, so
he made no answer. Rahamat knew nothing of his business. His mother's
father's sister was the daughter of a boatman; on that plea he had
become a hanger-on of boatmen, and accident favoured his wishes; but
he learned nothing, his work was done as fate willed. Rahamat was not
backward in speech, and when his prayers were ended he turned to the
Babu and said, "Do not be alarmed, sir, there is no cause for fear."
Rahamat was thus brave because the shore was close at hand, and could
be reached without delay, and in a few minutes the boat was secured.
Surely the gods must have had a quarrel with Rahamat Mullah, for a
great storm came up quickly. First came the wind; then the wind,
having wrestled for some moments with the boughs of the trees, called
to its brother the rain, and the two began a fine game. Brother Rain,
mounting on brother Wind's shoulders, flew along. The two together,
seizing the tree-tops, bent them down, broke the boughs, tore off the
creepers, washed away the flowers, cast up the river in great waves,
and made a general tumult. One brother flew off with Rahamat Mullah's
head-gear; the other made a fountain of his beard. The boatmen lowered
the sail, the Babu closed the windows, and the servants put the
furniture under shelter.
Nagendra was in a great strait. If, in fear of the storm, he should
leave the boat, the men would think him a coward; if he remained he
would break his word to Surja Mukhi. Some may ask, What harm if he
did? We know not, but Nagendra thought it harm. At this moment Rahamat
Mullah said, "Sir, the rope is old; I do not know what may happen. The
storm has much increased; it will be well to leave the boat."
Accordingly Nagendra got out.
No one can stand on the river bank without shelter in a heavy storm of
rain. There was no sign of abatement; therefore Nagendra, thinking it
necessary to seek for shelter, set out to walk to the village, which
was at some distance from the river, through miry paths. Presently the
rain ceased, the wind abated slightly, but the sky was still thickly
covered with clouds; therefore both wind and rain might be expected at
night. Nagendra went on, not turning back.
Though it was early in the evening, there was thick darkness, because
of the clouds. There was no sign of village, house, plain, road, or
river; but the trees, being surrounded by myriads of fireflies,
looked like artificial trees studded with diamonds. The lightning
goddess also still sent quick flashes through the now silent black and
white clouds. A woman's anger does not die away suddenly. The
assembled frogs, rejoicing in the newly fallen rain, held high
festival; and if you listened attentively the voice of the cricket
might be heard, like the undying crackle of Ravana's[1] funeral pyre.
Amid the sounds might be distinguished the fall of the rain-drops on
the leaves of the trees, and that of the leaves into the pools
beneath; the noise of jackals' feet on the wet paths, occasionally
that of the birds on the trees shaking the water from their drenched
feathers, and now and then the moaning of the almost subdued wind.
Presently Nagendra saw a light in the distance. Traversing the flooded
earth, drenched by the drippings from the trees, and frightening away
the jackals, he approached the light; and on nearing it with much
difficulty, saw that it proceeded from an old brick-built house, the
door of which was open. Leaving his servant outside, Nagendra entered
the house, which he found in a frightful condition.
[Footnote 1: King of Lanka (Ceylon), whose remains were to burn
without ceasing.]
It was not quite an ordinary house, but it had no sign of prosperity.
The door-frames were broken and dirty; there was no trace of human
occupation--only owls, mice, reptiles, and insects gathered there.
The light came only from one side. Nagendra saw some articles of
furniture for human use; but everything indicated poverty. One or two
cooking vessels, a broken oven, three or four brass dishes--these were
the sole ornaments of the place. The walls were black; spiders' webs
hung in the corners; cockroaches, spiders, lizards, and mice,
scampered about everywhere. On a dilapidated bedstead lay an old man
who seemed to be at death's door; his eyes were sunk, his breath
hurried, his lips trembling. By the side of his bed stood an earthen
lamp upon a fragment of brick taken from the ruins of the house. In it
the oil was deficient; so also was it in the body of the man. Another
lamp shone by the bedside--a girl of faultlessly fair face, of soft,
starry beauty.
Whether because the light from the oil-less lamp was dim, or because
the two occupants of the house were absorbed in thinking of their
approaching separation, Nagendra's entrance was unseen. Standing in
the doorway, he heard the last sorrowful words that issued from the
mouth of the old man. These two, the old man and the young girl, were
friendless in this densely-peopled world. Once they had had wealth,
relatives, men and maid servants--abundance of all kinds; but by the
fickleness of fortune, one after another, all had gone. The mother of
the family, seeing the faces of her son and daughter daily fading like
the dew-drenched lotus from the pinch of poverty, had early sunk upon
the bed of death. All the other stars had been extinguished with that
moon. The support of the race, the jewel of his mother's eye, the hope
of his father's age, even he had been laid on the pyre before his
father's eyes. No one remained save the old man and this enchanting
girl. They dwelt in this ruined, deserted house in the midst of the
forest. Each was to the other the only helper.
Kunda Nandini was of marriageable age; but she was the staff of her
father's blindness, his only bond to this world. While he lived he
could give her up to no one. "There are but a few more days; if I give
away Kunda where can I abide?" were the old man's thoughts when the
question of giving her in marriage arose in his mind. Had it never
occurred to him to ask himself what would become of Kunda when his
summons came? Now the messenger of death stood at his bedside; he was
about to leave the world; where would Kunda be on the morrow?
The deep, indescribable suffering of this thought expressed itself in
every failing breath. Tears streamed from his eyes, ever restlessly
closing and opening, while at his head sat the thirteen-year-old girl,
like a stone figure, firmly looking into her father's face, covered
with the shadows of death. Forgetting herself, forgetting to think
where she would go on the morrow, she gazed only on the face of her
departing parent. Gradually the old man's utterance became obscure,
the breath left the throat, the eyes lost their light, the suffering
soul obtained release from pain. In that dark place, by that
glimmering lamp, the solitary Kunda Nandini, drawing her father's dead
body on to her lap, remained sitting. The night was extremely dark;
even now rain-drops fell, the leaves of the trees rustled, the wind
moaned, the windows of the ruined house flapped noisily. In the
house, the fitful light of the lamp flickered momentarily on the face
of the dead, and again left it in darkness. The lamp had long been
exhausted of oil; now, after two or three flashes, it went out. Then
Nagendra, with noiseless steps, went forth from the doorway.